Prizes
by nileflood
Summary: The War is over, the last battle fought and prizes claimed. Samuel has come a long way, done many things, great and unbelievable things when no one expected much from him. The only trouble is, once you become King of Hell, you begin to forget who you really are. Sometimes it takes tragedy to remember. Sam/Gabriel


A smoke-blackened column crashed to the ground as he moved past, kicking up dust and debris into the air but it changed nothing. It was of no importance to him. The air was clawing, acrid but after the sulphur smell of the Pit, the stench of Heaven as it burnt was almost sweet. It filled his lungs, his heart already beating too fast and too hard but he didn't care. This was the victory he'd worked for, fought for. This was his Destiny.

There were shadows of wings scorched onto the marble steps, bodies burnt beyond recognition. Angels, demons, humans, witches, monsters, all dead together. It seemed fitting that now there was no telling them apart, that one blacked shape could be an adversary or an ally. He stepped over them, feeling the weakened bone snap under his feet. Whatever and whoever they were, they're dead now and there's nothing he could do about it.

He's learned not to care. As a human, he cared too much, always trying to do the 'right' thing, even fighting against who he was, and what he could become. They had held him back, Bobby, John, Dean and his stupid angel. They knew he had the power to stop all of the fighting, but they'd let it go on and so this was where it had to end. Perhaps Dean had survived. Perhaps this final battle had proved to him just how stupid he had been to trust the seraph and not his own family. Sammy would have shared his power, shared everything with his brother, but Dean had rejected him and now he would rule alone. But perhaps it was best if Dean was dead. He would never accept Sammy or his fate. Dean deserved death. He needed the rest from war.

They all needed rest.

"My Lord," a twisted creature called, forcing Hell's Boy King from his thoughts. He did not like to be interrupted, but there were matters that needed his attention and poisonous thoughts and memories only stirred bile in his dead heart. He let the thoughts go and turned his attention back to the business at hand.

The fighting here had been fiercest, the gold and marble of heaven melted into painful shapes, the light that poured from every surface flickering like frame, casting tortured shadows across the kneeling creatures before him. Angels, with their wings bloodied and their spirits broken. The King of Hell carried the sword of their brother, Lucifer's sword, heavy with sin. Lucifer had tried to win this war, tried and failed too many times and Sam had taken the blade from the Morningstar's dying fingers. Clearly the sword needed a strong man not an unruly angel to work its magic.

"Kill all of them." They would just make trouble anyway, rebel and cause headaches further down the line. They were a disobedient lot and unmanageable. His demons closed in, a sudden darkness falling over the glade of marble at the heart of Heaven.

"No!"

The voice is unexpected, desperate and Samuel spun around. No one questioned him, not a single servant of Hell would dare unless they wanted their blood drained and their carcass fed to worms. But it wasn't a demon that spoke; he knew all those voices like he knew his own.

But this voice wasn't unfamiliar. It was almost impossible to remember that far back, before he had realized his purpose. He'd been a child then, following Dean and Dean's whims and fancies. It's the voice of someone he'd long thought was dead. He'd mourned, once. What a waste of time.

"_Gavri'el_ ." He almost grinned, and the angel, the archangel, stood. He probably didn't intend to, but Samuel wielded more than just Lucifer's sword now. He was the second of the four, only second to Michael and Samuel's demons were combing the battlefield now to bring their master Michael's head. Gabriel had no choice but to stand if Samuel wanted him to, but if he was not held up by invisible talons he certainly would not be standing. His wings were torn; his body bleeding and Samuel could see the Grace oozing from him. He would die, soon enough. "What do you want?"

The archangel swayed, and silently the unseen talons gripped him tighter, forcing him still, despite the spasms of pain.

"I don't want you to kill them. Geneva Convention and all that," Gabriel said, tipping his head up, straightening himself even if it caused him pain. He wasn't about to cower. Gabriel had never cowered, despite the diminutive size of his vessel. "I want to offer you a trade. Let them live, and... And I'll Fall. I'll come with you."

There was, of course, no need to accept. No reason to. Samuel could have them all killed, Gabriel too, and it would be of no consequence. But something stopped him from giving the order. Gabriel was the last archangel. He was handing himself over, almost on a plate, the last symbol of hope. It would be better to keep him alive than to martyr him. Gabriel could inspire so much in so many, to see him on his knees would be perfect in so many ways. So... satisfactory.

"You willingly give yourself to me?" Samuel asked, and as Gabriel's head bowed into a nod, the angel was jerked forward, and as soon as he reached the Boy King, the talons uncurled from his shoulders, letting the Messenger slump into a bloody heap at Samuel's feet.

That was how Gabriel, Messenger of the Lord, came to be the King of Hell's war prize, the bargaining chip that ensured the lives of his brothers and sisters.

Gabriel remembered very little of how he arrived in the Pit. He remembered...pain, and fire, and Sasquatch's voice. Not like it used to be, smart and cautious and loyal, but twisted and smooth, dark like jet and maybe it was the fever that raged in him, but Gabriel felt something inside him break and burn.

Samuel would be the first to admit that he took pleasure out of seeing the angel like this. Stripped of everything but the heavy collar around his throat, his wings bound, his mouth gagged. He'd lost count of the times before, when as a human he'd wanted to see Gabriel like this, silenced and powerless. Dean would have called it a sick fantasy, but Samuel had always liked these games, pleasure mixed with pain and considering what the angel had put them through, Samuel was sure that Gabriel shared the same passion.

But it was different now, deliciously reversed. Gabriel was defenceless, weak against Samuel and the power he could command. But Sam needed none of that power now, none at all.

He'd had the angel scrubbed, all trace of Heaven and the war washed away, and now Gabriel was his to do with as he liked, polished and painted with gold and scarlet. And for a moment, Samuel only wanted to look, to drink in the sight of the angel on his knees, naked and humbled and it was almost, almost perfect.

The flinch when Samuel touched him was to be expected. As was the muffled noise of protest as Samuel's fingers stroked over him, traced scars over the angel's form that hadn't been there before. Gabriel had always taken great pains to fix himself, to appear unblemished by the world but now they seemed like badges, medals from the war with Hell when Gabriel's Grace was too finely spread to worry about healing the wounds he received.

The latest ones were still open, flesh and tender and Gabriel shuddered when Sam's fingers pressed against them, feeling Grace as well as blood ooze from them, bubbling over his own skin and mixing with his soul. There was no one save Gabriel there to hear Samuel's startled gasp, the way the soul and Grace combined, merging in a sudden flash of heat, pain and want. It was a desire that Samuel could feel now, palpable as Gabriel tried to look away, old lust from the days before, from the first time they'd met. Samuel had sensed it then, had felt something pass between them but it had never been more, and now he regretted that. He wanted Gabriel to come to him willingly, hungrily.

But perhaps that was what he had done. Given himself over to Samuel and now Samuel had tasted those desires, old but still as rich as wine, now he could not stop himself. Gabriel was his to do with as he wanted, and when he pulled the gag from the angel's mouth and forced him down onto the sheets there was the spark of acknowledgement in those swirling amber eyes.

There were only certain ways to kill an archangel. Everyone knew that the blade of another archangel, or even their own, would do the job. But there were other ways. Cut them hard and deep enough, wear them down until they couldn't heal, watch the Grace flow out of them like sweet molasses. The touch of God's hand could kill anything. A kiss from chaos. The slowest, most painful method was the fading of their Grace, and that was what was happening to Gabriel.

Part of him refused to care, despite the fact he had taken his prize to bed. His face was expressionless, even cold. But the few times that he had Gabriel brought to him, in front of his throne or to his chamber, the angel made no sign of his discomfort, only criticized the lack of candy and Samuel's poor interior decorating talents. There was something in him that reminded Samuel of simpler times. Not better times, but... different ones. When he'd only seen the world through human eyes and for some unfathomable reason, he wanted to hold onto the last remaining evidence that he had once been so... so human.

It was a disgusting thought, really, that something so great could come from something so weak but it was true. He wouldn't have anyone speak of it, not in his hearing, but he knew, and the demons knew. Gabriel certainly knew, but as time drew on the angel spent more time trying to steady himself when Samuel called for him, trying to keep himself balanced under Samuel's onslaught, and less time trying to be witty and facetious.

If the King of Hell felt any pang of sadness at that fact, it was simply because the angel was far from entertaining, and not because Samuel missed the banter between them or the angel's quick humour, or the beauty in those eyes which now seemed so dulled. He tried to incite some sort of reaction by having the archangel called for whenever he felt like it, had feathers plucked from his wings to rouse some sort of response, but as the days past and Gabriel grew paler, thinner, even his shudders of pain subsided into a constant, feverish shivering.

He could have had the angel's misery ended, of course, had Lucifer's sword brought to him and simply run the angel though. It would be little effort and maybe at least in death Gabriel might be amusing, might admit the feelings he carried, in front of Samuel and his demons. But it just seemed such a waste. The next time the angel began to sway, to lose his balance and look ready to drop to the floor, Samuel had a chair brought, set before the great black throne of Hell and the angel helped into it.

The look of surprise on the Messenger's face was much more rewarding than any death the angel could have faced. Relief and thanks and that night when Samuel forced his mouth against the angel's and kissed all the breath from him, Gabriel tried to kiss back.

The chair was not enough to turn the tide however. His Grace, pure white burning light, still bled from him, slowly speeding and as unstoppable as lava. Gabriel made no hint of recognition when Samuel called for him, didn't try to stop himself from falling into the cushions of Samuel's bed, and didn't attempt to hide the silent tears that streamed down his face. The next time Gabriel was brought in front of Hell's midnight throne, he lifted his head, once, the movement slow and heavy and their eyes met, amber and hazel, for only a second before the angel collapsed forward again, tugging the chain that bound him out of the hands of the demons that were his keepers.

He crumpled to the floor, folded like a paper man and lay there, unmoving.

The angel did not breathe, but for a second the only thing that echoed around the room as the ragged sound, an indrawn breath. It was with horror that Sam realized it had come from him, that he'd stood up from the throne and even stepped down from the dais towards the angel. There were eyes fixed on him, shocked black eyes turned to him, judging him and searching for any kind of weakness and for a moment, the Boy King faltered.

But he wasn't weak. He hadn't ever been weak, just misguided and used and he wasn't about to start that cycle all over again. He wasn't going to forget what he was, or who he had become. Boy King of Hell he might be, but he was also Sam Winchester, and Sam Winchester knew what he had to do.

He closed the distance between the dais and Gabriel's form before any of the demons managed to make any move at all, falling to his knees and turning the angel over. They were heavy things, angels, weighed down with the Grace of God and purpose, but Sam found he could move Gabriel now as easily as he might have moved a child. That frightened him, more than he could dare admit to, but as Gabriel's back hit the cold black floor, the angel groaned, his eyes opening.

"So there is still a sasquatch in there," he muttered, a faint shadow of his usual grin flickering over his lips, lips that were fast losing their colour.

"You don't get rid of me that easily," Sam countered, searching for something, anything, he could do.

"Too late. Nothing you can do, kiddo. Need a miracle and Dad's still a no-show." Gabriel laughed, weak but still strong enough to hear Sam's thoughts. Maybe his thoughts were simply very loud, Sam wasn't sure. He wasn't rightly sure of very much at that moment, only that he was a complete ass for ever thinking it wouldn't matter if Gabriel was dead. It mattered a lot. It mattered more than anything else at that moment.


End file.
